The rain has not ceased its onslaught all day; now that the Sun is setting behind tall black thunderheads, a wet and dreary darkness descends over the city. The streets empty quickly, few pedestrians foolish enough to linger outside in such a storm. Whether this one lone man is truly foolish or simply has no where else to go remains to be seen. Either way, he trudges down the vacant streets with his shoulders hunched against the biting wind, a scrap of storm tamed and tempered into human shape. He appears to be in his late thirties, though weariness and a frequent lack of sleep have aged his otherwise youthful features. He is a tall, gaunt man whose height only accentuates his skeletal form. His face is likewise long and thin, composed of sharp angles and deep shadows. He is beautiful, in a way, but his beauty is marred by the weary grief which twists his lips and furrows his eyebrows. His skin is very pale, almost sickly so, and his shaggy hair is prematurely white. He is like a wraith, haggard and sallow in appearance, but his eyes are a brooding black which is both piercing and guarded. The man walks restlessly, ignoring the rain though his clothing is soaked through to his skin. His thin jacket is ill-equipped for such a harsh winter and he wears no scarf, no gloves, nothing to protect his already malnourished body. There is an air of obvious poverty about this man, his clothing worn from use and too large for his slender frame. His unkempt appearance and oddly delicate features present a strange dichotomy, like a man trapped between childhood and adulthood, between stubborn survival and miserable resignation.
The coffee shop is crowded but the man manages to secure a secluded table in a window corner. He slings a long black cashmere coat over the chair and sits, the small table almost too low to fold his long legs beneath. Outside the rain falls in heavy sheets and he welcomes the comfort of a hot cup of plain coffee. Water drips slowly from his black hair, the droplets twisting down its subtle waves and soaking into his argyle sweater. Although he does not obnoxiously display his affluence, it is clear from this man's elegant clothing that he is fairly wealthy. His dress and manner are in no way intimidating, however. He is in his early forties, though a carefree life has kept his willowy body well-built and his strong features young and kind. His eyes are a gray-blue like the northern ocean on an overcast morning, though in anger they may darken like the sea during a storm. Despite the friendly nature of his face, however, his gaze is somewhat distracted and his eyes do not light upon anything in particular. He sips his drink and stares out the window absently, as if he is waiting for someone but has forgotten whom. There is a lost quality about this man, as if his opulent lifestyle is nothing more than a monotonous game to pass the time. He sits alone at the table until his coffee cup has long been emptied, then finally gives in and dons his coat once again, heading back out into the dreary night.